So much to do.
So many people who depended on him.
So very tired.
Winter collapsed onto his narrow bed. Just a moment’s rest first. As he closed his eyes, he seemed to feel the touch of a soft yet strong feminine hand.
Seductive, husky laughter whispered in his mind…
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Winter jolted upright, hissing as the sudden movement sent a stab of pain through his right thigh. Sunlight was streaming through his window now, illuminating every crack in the wall, every dusty beam in his attic bedroom. He squinted. It must be late morning, judging by the angle of the sun. He’d overslept.
The insistent knocking on his door began again, this time accompanied by a feminine voice. “Winter! Are you there, Brother?”
“A moment.” He snatched his nightshirt from under his pillow and hastily threw it over his head. His breeches were nowhere in sight and he couldn’t remember where he’d left them yesterday.
“Winter!”
Sighing, he draped the bedsheets around his shoulders like a banyan and stood to open his bedroom door.
Sherry-brown eyes narrowed in fear and concern met his. “Wherever have you been?”
Temperance Huntington, Baroness Caire, his elder sister, swept into Winter’s room. Behind her was a girl of thirteen with black hair and rosy cheeks. Mary Whitsun was the eldest girl at the home and as such held the most responsibilities.
Temperance nodded at the girl. “You’d best go tell the others that we’ve found him.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mary hesitated only long enough to say to Winter, “I’m so glad you’re safe, sir.” Then she was gone.
Temperance glanced about the room as if expecting to find an entire brothel hiding in the corner, then frowned up at him. “Dear Lord, Winter, we’ve spent half the night and all this morning searching for you! When you didn’t come back yesterday and the riot spilled over into St. Giles, I quite feared the worst. And then we received word that you’d never made it to the new home.”
Temperance plopped onto the bed. Winter eased back as well, careful to keep the covers over his lower limbs. He opened his mouth—
But Temperance evidently wasn’t done. “And then Silence sent word that she has married Mickey O’Connor and has gone into some sort of hiding with him. We had to send the baby, Mary Darling, to her with two of O’Connor’s more frightening-looking men.” She added grudgingly, “Although, they did seem very fond of Mary Darling and she of they.”
She inhaled for breath and Winter leaped into the breech. “Then our sister is safe?”
Temperance threw up her hands. “Presumably so. The soldiers were all over London yesterday—and still are today, for that matter—looking for Mickey O’Connor. Can you imagine? They say he was actually dangling from the rope when the Ghost of St. Giles cut him down. Of course, that’s probably an exaggeration. You know how these rumors spread.”
Winter kept his features impassive. Actually, it was no exaggeration at all—he’d barely made it in time to save O’Connor’s neck from the hangman’s noose. But obviously he couldn’t tell Temperance that.
“And Mr. O’Connor’s wretched palace burned last night,” Temperance said in a lower voice. “They say a body was found in the smoldering ashes this morning, and everyone presumes it to be O’Connor’s, but Silence’s note arrived after the fire, so he must be still alive, mustn’t he? Oh, Winter! Will Silence be safe with him, do you think?”
That was one question he could answer without hesitation.
“Yes.” Winter looked into Temperance’s eyes so that she could see the assurance in his. Mickey O’Connor might be a very dangerous river pirate and the most notorious man in London at the moment—and Winter might dislike the man quite intensely—but he did know one thing: “He loves Silence and Silence loves him. I watched the man’s face as he gave Silence up to us when he knew he could no longer protect her. O’Connor cares for her deeply. Whatever else happens, he’ll keep her safe with his life.”
“Dear Lord, I hope so.”
For a moment Temperance closed her eyes, losing her rigid posture as she slumped against his pillow. She was but nine and twenty—a mere three years older than he—but Winter was startled to realize that a few fine lines had imprinted themselves about her eyes. Had they always been there and he’d never noticed? Or were they new, brought on by the excitement of the last few weeks?
As he watched her, Temperance opened her eyes, as alert as ever. “You still haven’t answered my question. Where have you been since yesterday afternoon?”
“I got caught in the riot.” Winter winced and settled himself companionably on the narrow bed, shoulder to shoulder with his sister. “I’m afraid I was already late to my meeting with Lady Beckinhall. I was hurrying to get there when the crowd overwhelmed me. It was rather like getting caught in a herd of cows driven to market, I suppose, except they were noisier, fouler, and much more mean than any bovine mass.”
“Oh, Winter,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. “What happened?”
He shrugged. “I was too slow. I fell and was kicked about some and my leg was hurt.” He gestured to his right leg. “It’s not broken,” he added hastily at her exclamation, “but it did slow me down. I ended up ducking into a tavern to wait out the worst of the riot. I suppose I got home quite late last night.”
Temperance frowned. “No one saw you come in.”
“As I said, it was quite late.”
Strange how facile he had become at lying—even to those closest to him. It was a flaw within himself that he would have to examine later, for it did not speak well of his character.
He looked at the window. “And now it is already late in the morning, I think, and I need to be up and about my duties.”
“Nonsense!” Temperance’s brows drew together. “You’re injured, Brother. One day abed will not bring the house down about your ears.”
“Perhaps you’re right…,” he began, and then was startled when his sister leaned over to peer into his face. “What is wrong?”
“You’re not arguing with me,” she murmured. “You must really be hurt.”
He opened his mouth to deny her statement, but unfortunately she jostled his leg at that moment, turning his protest into a gasp of pain.
“Winter!” Temperance stared at the bedsheet-covered leg as if she could see through the material. “How bad is your leg, exactly?”
“It’s just a bump.” He swallowed. “Nothing to be concerned over.”
She narrowed her eyes, looking patently dubious of his claim.
“But I may take your advice and stay abed today,” he added hastily to appease her. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure he could stand for any length of time.
“Good,” she replied, gingerly rising from the bed. “I’m sending one of the maids up with some soup. And I should get a doctor to see you as well.”
“No need,” he said a bit too sharply. A doctor would immediately realize that his wound came from a knife. Besides, Lady Beckinhall’s maidservant had already sewed it up. “No, really,” he said in a quieter voice. “I just want to sleep for a bit.”
“Humph.” Temperance didn’t look at all convinced by his protest. “If I weren’t leaving this afternoon, I’d stay and make sure a doctor saw to you.”
“Where are you going?” he asked, hoping to change the topic of conversation.
“A house party in the country that Caire insists we attend.” Temperance’s face clouded. “There’ll be all sorts of aristocrats there, I suppose, and all of them looking down their horsey noses at me.”
He smiled—he couldn’t help it at her description—but his words were tender when he replied. “I doubt anyone will be sneering. Caire would cut off their noses, horsey or not, if they dared.”
A corner of her mouth tipped up at that. “He would, wouldn’t he?”
And Winter was glad, not for the first time, that his elder sister had found a man who adored her completely—even if he was
an aristocrat.
For a moment he felt a pang. Both Temperance and Silence—the two people he was closest to in the world—were married now. They had husbands and, presumably, would soon have families of their own. They’d always be his sisters, but now they would always be apart from him as well.
It was a lonely thought.
But he didn’t let it show on his face. “You’ll do fine,” he told Temperance gently. “You have intelligence and moral dignity. Qualities I suspect very few of those aristocrats possess.”
She sighed as she opened his door. “You may be right, but I’m not entirely certain that intelligence and moral dignity are at all esteemed in aristocratic circles.”
“Ma’am?” Mary Whitsun peered around the doorjamb. “My lord Caire says as how he’s waiting for you in the carriage.”
“Thank you, Mary.” Temperance touched a finger to the girl’s cheek, her countenance clouded. “I’m sorry to leave again so soon. We haven’t had much time together lately, have we?”
For a moment Mary’s stoic little face wavered. Until her marriage, Temperance had lived at the home and had grown especially close to Mary Whitsun.
“No, ma’am,” the girl said. “But you’ll be coming back soon, won’t you?”
Temperance bit her lip. “Not for another month or more, I’m afraid. I have an extended house party to attend.”
Mary nodded resignedly. “I ’spect there’s lots of things you must do now that you’re a lady and not like us anymore.”
Temperance winced at the girl’s words, and Winter felt a chill. Mary was right: The aristocratic world was apart from the ordinary world he and Mary lived in. Mingling the two never worked well—something he’d do well to remember when next he saw Lady Beckinhall.
THE CURRENT FASHION in furnishings was opulent, Isabel reflected several days later, but even by modern standards the Earl of Brightmore’s London town house was so beyond lavish it bordered on the ridiculous. Rose-colored marble columns lined the walls of Brightmore’s main sitting room, topped with gilded Corinthian finials. And the finials weren’t the only things that were gilded. Walls, ornaments, furniture, even the earl’s daughter, Lady Penelope Chadwicke, shone with gold. Isabel personally thought that gold thread—which featured prominently in the embroidery on Lady Penelope’s skirt and bodice—was rather absurd for an afternoon tea, but then she supposed it did make sense.
What else was the daughter of Midas to wear but gold?
“Mr. Makepeace may be intelligent,” Lady Penelope was saying, her voice just slow enough to imbue her words with doubt about the manager’s mental facilities, “but he is not suitable to run an institution for children and infants by himself. I think we can all be agreed on that point at least.”
Isabel popped a bite of scone into her mouth and mentally cocked an eyebrow. The Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children was holding an emergency meeting with those members currently in town: herself; Lady Phoebe Batten; Lady Margaret Reading; Lady Penelope; and Lady Penelope’s companion, Miss Artemis Greaves, who, Isabel supposed, must be accounted an honorary member of the Ladies’ Syndicate simply because she always attended with Lady Penelope. Missing were Temperance Huntington, the new Lady Caire; her mother-in-law, Lady Amelia Caire; and Lady Hero, all out of town.
Judging from the expressions of the other members of the Ladies’ Syndicate, Lady Penelope’s point about Mr. Makepeace wasn’t universally agreed upon. But since Lady Penelope was, in addition to being a well-known beauty—eyes of pansy-purple, hair of raven-black, et cetera, et cetera—also a legendary heiress, not many ladies were brave enough to chance her ire.
Or perhaps Isabel had misjudged the courage of the assembled ladies.
“Ahem.” Lady Margaret cleared her throat delicately but quite firmly. A lady with dark, curling brown hair and a pleasant face, she was one of the youngest members—older only than Lady Phoebe, who was still technically in the schoolroom—but she seemed a strong personality nonetheless. “It’s a pity that Mr. Makepeace no longer has the help of his sisters in overseeing the home, but he has been the manager for many years now. I think he’ll do quite well enough on his own.”
“Pish!” Lady Penelope didn’t snort, but she did come perilously close. Her pansy-purple eyes widened so much in incredulity that they nearly bugged from her head. Not a becoming expression. “It’s not just the lack of feminine authority at the home that concerns me. You can’t seriously think that Mr. Makepeace can represent the home at all the social functions he’ll need to attend now that we ladies are patronesses?”
Lady Margaret looked troubled. “Well—”
“The home has new social standing because of the Ladies’ Syndicate. He’ll be invited to all manner of genteel gatherings—gatherings in which his comportment will reflect on us as his patronesses. There will be teas, balls, possibly even musicales!”
Lady Penelope waved a dramatic hand, nearly clipping the nose of Miss Greaves, sitting next to her. Miss Greaves, a rather plain young woman who hardly spoke, started. Isabel privately suspected she’d been dozing while holding Lady Penelope’s silly little white dog in her lap.
“No,” Lady Penelope continued, “the man is impossibly gauche. Just three days ago he did not appear for a scheduled appointment with Lady Beckinhall at the new home and didn’t even send an apology. Can you imagine?”
Isabel swallowed, amused at the other woman’s theatrics. “To be strictly fair, there was a riot in St. Giles at the time.” And she’d been busy saving a mysterious, masked man whose athletic form haunted her dreams at night. Isabel hastily took a sip of tea.
“To not send word to a lady is the height of impoliteness, riot or no riot!”
Isabel shrugged and took another scone. Privately she considered a riot quite sufficient excuse—Mr. Makepeace had sent an apology ’round the next day—but she hadn’t the interest to argue with Lady Penelope. Mr. Makepeace might be a perfectly fine manager, but she had to agree that he would be a disaster in society.
“And with the new home’s grand opening, we have need of a much more refined manager,” Lady Penelope said. “Someone who can converse with a lady without offering insult. Someone who can rub shoulders with dukes and earls. Someone not the son of a beer brewer.” Her lip curled on the last two words as if beer brewer were a step below whoremonger.
The Ghost of St. Giles would probably be quite at home conversing with dukes and earls—whatever his social standing under that mask might be. Isabel pushed aside the thought to focus on the conversation. “Temperance Huntington is Mr. Makepeace’s sister and thus also the child of a brewer.”
“Yes.” Lady Penelope shuddered. “But at least she has married well.”
Lady Margaret pursed her lips. “Well, even if Mr. Makepeace cannot overcome his accident of birth, I do not see how we can take the home away from him. It was founded by his father—that same beer brewer.”
“He’s now the manager of a large, well-funded home. A home that will, no doubt, in the future expand in both size and prestige. A home with all our names attached to it. In less than a fortnight he will be obliged to attend the Duchess of Arlington’s grand ball. Can you imagine what will happen the first time the Duchess of Arlington asks Mr. Makepeace about the children in his home?” Lady Penelope arched a pointed eyebrow. “He’s likely to spit at her.”
“Well, not spit,” Isabel protested. Cut her dead, maybe…
Sadly, Lady Penelope had a point. Because they had all given money to the home, Mr. Makepeace, as the home’s manager, would now be an important figure in London society. He needed to be able to sail polite society’s sometimes dangerous waters with ease. To be the face of the home, to perhaps solicit more monies, influence, and prestige for it as the home grew. All of which Mr. Makepeace was completely unprepared for at the moment.
“I can teach him,” Lady Phoebe blurted out.
All heads swung toward the chit. She was a plump child
of seventeen or eighteen with light brown hair and a sweet face. She should be in the midst of preparations for her first season—except Isabel suspected there wouldn’t be any season for the poor girl. She wore round spectacles, but her eyes squinted vaguely behind them. Lady Phoebe was nearly blind.
Still, she lifted her chin. “I can help Mr. Makepeace. I know I can.”
“I’m sure you could, dear,” Isabel said. “But it would be quite inappropriate for a bachelor gentleman such as Mr. Makepeace to be taught by a maiden.”
Lady Margaret had opened her mouth, but she closed it abruptly at Isabel’s last words. Lady Margaret wasn’t married either.
“The idea is a good one, though,” Lady Margaret rallied. “Mr. Makepeace is an intelligent man. If someone pointed out the advantages to him of learning society’s ways, I’m sure he would set himself to acquiring some sophistication.”
She glanced at Lady Penelope. That lady simply arched her eyebrows and sat back in her chair with a moue of distaste. Miss Greaves was staring fixedly at the little dog in her lap. As Lady Penelope’s companion, it would be suicide for her to voice dissent to the other lady’s opinion.
Lady Margaret’s gaze swung toward Isabel. Her lips curved into a mischievous smile. “What we need is a lady who is no longer a maiden. A lady with a full understanding of polite society and its intricacies. A lady with enough self-possession to polish Mr. Makepeace into the diamond we all know he is.”
Oh, dear.
THREE DAYS LATER, Winter Makepeace carefully descended the wide marble staircase of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children’s new residence. The staircase was a far cry from the rickety bare wood steps in their old home, but the slippery marble was also perilous to a man using a cane to support his still-healing right leg.
“Coo! Bet this banister would make a grand slide,” Joseph Tinbox said somewhat unwarily. He seemed to realize his mistake as soon as the words had left his lips. The boy turned an innocently earnest freckled face up toward Winter. “ ’Course, I’d never do such a thing.”
“No, that would be quite unwise.” Winter made a mental note to include a warning against banister riding in his next address to the children of the home.